


Ferragosto - a year later

by Zeta_Mei



Series: Ferragosto [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Because Sicily is really a magic place, Brienne of Tarth is the Best, But the Kingslayer and the Maid of Tarth make a brief appearance, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Jaime is an idiot, Modern AU, Quickies are a good thing aren't they?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:54:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26157628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zeta_Mei/pseuds/Zeta_Mei
Summary: 'The wench. Brienne of the fucking island lost in the sea.Honest. Too honest. Unbearably honest, loyal, diligent, responsible, and respectful of law, written and unwritten. Gods had created her only to punish him. The ancient Gods, the Greek and Roman ones, gorgeous, greedy, smart and vengeful, truly Lannisters-like Gods.'
Relationships: Jaime Lannister & Brienne of Tarth, Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Series: Ferragosto [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1899355
Comments: 7
Kudos: 43





	Ferragosto - a year later

The cardboard was already there. Pink, with _Chiuso per Ferragosto_ written in a bright blue.

Jaime couldn't help but smirk.

He must talk with a specialist about his obsession for blue, the judge has said, before fining him for having ignored the prescriptions of Dr. Stanislao Barra-something of the _Soprintendenza_. Such a stern, sad man, that Stan. One of those men who fucks his wife once or twice a year, and only for duty. No wonder if the unfortunate woman had fled with the languid ginger beautician who took care of her moustache - Jaime had had no part in it, not at all, no matter what Tyrion or the wench might think about it.

The wench. Brienne of the fucking island lost in the sea.

Honest. Too honest. Unbearably honest, loyal, diligent, responsible, and respectful of law, written and unwritten. Gods had created her only to punish him. The ancient Gods, the Greek and Roman ones, gorgeous, greedy, smart and vengeful, truly Lannisters-like Gods.

He sighed, looking at the stars peeking out from the window. The sky knew that Jaime had only wanted to paint his house blue, and if the law prohibited it for historic reasons that just stubborn wenches could understand, well, it was the law to be unfair, and he was proud to be an outlaw.

Like the Kingslayer, in times of old.

A lucky man, that one. The Maid of Tarth, so _his_ wench was called. Tall, strong and amazingly unique, in the portrait conserved at the Rock. Jaime had spent a lot of his childhood in front of it - then came puberty, and, with it, awkward boners which were a bit difficult to explain to aunt Genna.

Even now, the memory made something stir in him. Or maybe it was her smell - sea, salt and milk. A taste of tiny pachino tomatoes, too. Such a wicked wench, to smell like a dream come true.

He tucked his nose deep into the smooth, sweated crook of her collarbone, just to be sure she wasn't only a dream, and when she answered with a growl that would have shamed a bear, Jaime started teasing her earlob. Just a nibble or two, struggling not to look down at her breasts. They were round, silvery white and promisingly soft. Prohibited territory, in the last three weeks. A brush, a gentle feather touch on her too sensitive skin, and she would throw him out of the bed.

Such a cruel wench, and stronger than him.

Jaime had learned the lesson, the day he had dragged her in front of the house, to show the painters the exact shade of blue he wanted for his damned house. Ok, maybe he had raised his voice at her protests and also kissed her in front of everyone without asking _formally_ if she wished to be kissed, but, come on, it was hot, he was thirsty, her eyelashes were fluttering, long and pale and exasperating, her lips were parted in confusion and scorn, full and delightfully wet... It had been her fault, in the end, and a broken nose was too a salt price for a kiss.

Brienne made out a hushed cry, and quivered, as his hand stroked her belly to pull her against his groin. His cock twitched, recognizing the firm curves of her ass. She moved, uncertain, and frustratingly slow, still drowsy and drunk in the moonlight. Shining an inebriating shine. Gods, a broken nose was nothing, after all.

"Don't you move. Don't you wake up", Jaime whispered into her ear, and, under the cotton sheets, he slid his hand between her thighs to push them open from behind, and sewed small kisses on her nape, on the thousand freckles winking on her back, while his fingers danced on her clit, slick and palpitant.

She moaned, curled to his body as if she was still asleep, dancing with his fingers, dancing with him, until her moans became short and painfully hoarse, and she was suddenly needing and aching like him. He choked a guttural sound on her locks, as he thrusted himself inside her, and her fingers pressed on his fingers, still stroking her clit, but from the front, now - and Jaime thrusted, and thrusted, not as softly and slowly as he'd wanted, but he couldn't restraint himself, not when she was sighing out his name with her absurd accent. He waited for her to dissolve into waves of blissful unawareness around his cock, before yielding, trembling, and spending any drop of himself inside her.

Brienne smelled of him, now. She was a bit him, in a way, his cock still inside her, arms and legs enlaced, the sheets reduced to a crumpled white thing hiding no more the shape of her and the perfection of a midsummer night dream.

A dawn dream. The Sicilian sun had nothing of the wench's shyness, and invaded the quiet room, filtering through the slits of the wooden shutters, painted blue. About the shutters, Jaime had won, at least. She denied it, and called it a _truce_ , the stubborn wench.

"Stay", he grumbled, grinning like the idiotic man he had become frequenting Brienne-the-lunk, and left the comfort of her body and of their bed, to face the invader.

No peace, even at Ferragosto. There must always be a petulant, annoying guest, pretending the wench's attention as if she wasn't Jaime’s wench, now. All _his_. Only _his_.

Jaime waddled, and looked down to the tiny imp, his mismatched eyes well wide and curious.

"Holiday. The bar is closed, Tyrion. Stop whining like a baby - _smettila di frignare_ ", he warned the little perverted, proud of his improving Italian.

"Jaime, three weeks old babies are supposed to whine", she said. She had already put herself seated, and was opening her arms, welcoming the small bundle of silk and hunger, her face still flushed and glowing. Such a terrible wench, to make his heart jump in his throat with a stupid, crooked smile and a bunch of domestic, ordinary words. "Have you put the cardboard well in sight?"

"Of course. The dresses are ready. Grandpa Selwyn will deal with Johanna, Tommen and Myrcella, and uncle Tyrion has already written a hundred speeches for the great occasion, Tysha told me. I suppose it’s too late to change the baby’s name.”

She lifted her eyes, wary. “Well, Tyrion is surely not a saint, and Tyrion is not even a saint’s name, so maybe we should choose a second name for the baptism, but, apart that, you signed up this little barbarian as Tyrion Bond at the public register, so… he’s Tyrion Bond, now, and forever. Can you make him burp, please?”

_Bond._

_Of course. Fuck._

In Jaime’s arms, baby Tyrion glared at his father with his blue eye, but his green eye was smiling, accomplice - Jaime was quite sure about it. _A good sign_ , he decided. It was past time to tell Brienne about some little details of no relevance.

Time goes by so quickly - one sunny day you’re just asking a wench to serve you a drink, one rainy day you’re asking her to forgive you because you didn’t want to made her cry, one windy day you’re asking the same, ugly, unbearable woman to help you getting back to the shore because you got cramps, and, why not, since she has saved your life, you’re even asking her to protect you for the rest of your days… _“It’s called wedding,_ matrimonio _, and it’s traditional enough, don’t you think, wench?”_

 _Burp_ , said the baby. It was clearly an approving burp, and the toothless monster made an even more convincing micro-yawn.

No more lies, just sun and sea and stars for them. “There’s something I’ve got to say, Brienne. Something important.” He froze, only for an instant: the wench wasn’t going to kill him, not with the baby asleep in his arms. “My name is Lannister, Jaime Lannister.”

“Son of Tywin.” She was smiling, and yawning at the same time. He had to sit on the bed. Brienne started stroking his shoulders, gently, her voice even gentler. “I met your father three days before we wed, Jaime, he found us through the _pubblicazioni_ , you know, the news of every marriage with the full and _true_ data of both bride and groom must be published before the marriage, and the sum you’ve offered to the public officer to make him close his eyes about the surname on your passport, well, consider it a donation for the victims of mafia. Luckily Mr. Bonifero is a good man, known for his piety, and he understood it was just a _desperation bribe,_ so he soon gave up the idea of calling the police. And signed up baby Ty as a Lannister.”

His head was spinning. “Wait, wench. You met my father and you still wed me?”

“Oh. He simply stole the results of my last blood analysis and had a detective asking about me and my family to all my friends. A weird thing. A stupid thing. I told him to behave well, as a _suocero_ and as a father, and he actually did in the last months. Thus, I invited him for the baptism, he and aunt Genna have arrived yesterday in Sicily. Your aunt is really cute, and, don’t worry about your father, he won’t bother you or big Tyrion, or I’ll kick him again in his golden ass.”

“Again?”

“Again.” She cupped Jaime’s unshaven cheeks and forced him to meet her eyes. Such a perfidious wench, to use her best weapons against him, while he was still shocked, his lips forming a “O” big like a house that was happily white, and with blue shutters and doors. “He will be a nice grandpa, I promise you. Sorry if I didn’t confess it before… do you still trust me, Jaime?”

“I trust you, Brienne.”

She leaned and kissed him, a quick, light brush, before taking gingerly the babe from Jaime’s arms – his wife, young and half naked, entirely beautiful.

“Can’t believe you really wed me, wench.”

She rolled her eyes, her incredible blue eyes. “Poor Ty, your father is so stupid, the stupidest of all Lannisters, I fear”, she murmured, and it sounded like the waves’ song on the shore.

A little Ferragosto song.

**Author's Note:**

> The portrait admired by Jaime is the Rock copy of the portrait described in the epilogue of "The Kingslayer's Captive", by TeamGwenee.  
> Can't spoil it, but it's an amazing work, short and very intense, you can find it here: 
> 
> [The Kingslayer's Captive series](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1814104)
> 
> PS: The Soprintenza is a public institution with the fundamental aim to preserve Italian historical sites and buildings (and the landscape, too) ...so the Author doesn't share Jaime's opinion about it, obviously ;) 
> 
> Thanks for reading :)


End file.
